


Better Still, A Perfect Lust

by Stark



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: Aug Kink, Character Study, Consent Issues, Handcuffs, M/M, Sarif Being Sarif, Unreliable Narrator, Withdrawn Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stark/pseuds/Stark
Summary: David knows exactly what Adam needs — and it's exactly what David wants.
Relationships: Adam Jensen/David Sarif
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Better Still, A Perfect Lust

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [The Hymn of Acxiom](https://viennateng.bandcamp.com/track/the-hymn-of-acxiom-3) by Vienna Teng
> 
> Uh, happy birthday, Adam.

“This,” David says, sliding his hand down Adam’s arm in a long, slow caress, “this feels better than the real thing, doesn’t it?”

And he wants to make Adam feel it all, now that he’s finally got him here. He brings Adam’s hand to his mouth and kisses it: first the wrist, then every inch of the palm, letting his lips drag lazily against the warm polycarbonate skin. The muscles underneath it aren’t as pliant as real ones would be, but they yield just slightly under the pressure of his kisses, activating hundreds of sensors, sending feedback straight into Adam’s brain.

“It feels good,” Adam admits.

There’s a hint of reluctance in his tone, but his voice is even hoarser than usual, and David can’t help but smile into the warm surface of his palm, then press another soft kiss into it. He looks up at Adam as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, watches his irises widen in a perfect impression of arousal. 

God, he’s gorgeous. His eyes never leave Adam’s as his tongue explores the intricate mechanisms of his fingers. He licks each fingertip, lets his teeth gently scrape the fine pattern of the grip texture, traces the gold joints of his knuckles. He’s rewarded with a quiet moan and feels a pang of desire as he watches Adam close his eyes and lean his head back against the wall.

You don’t get this kind of response with Tai Yong Medical. 

_I could come like this_ , David realizes, almost embarrassed. Just from touching these hands. And judging from the way Adam’s breath has quickened, he could make _him_ come like this, too. That thought sends a shiver down his spine, but — not tonight. Not yet. With a final kiss on his fingertips, he withdraws Adam’s fingers from his mouth.

“Let’s see what else feels good,” he says. He’s surprised how rough his own voice sounds. 

Adam must notice it, too, because he leans forward, trying to kiss him, but David stops him halfway with a hand pressed flat against his chest. He knows better what Adam needs right now, and it’s more than a kiss. More than sex. But then Adam whispers _please_ , and it’s so quiet and desperate that David reaches to stroke his cheek, smiling as he immediately nuzzles up against his hand. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, aloud this time, and he can both hear and feel it when Adam’s breath hitches. 

David lets him have that final moment of assurance, or maybe comfort — whatever it is Adam thinks he actually wants — then pulls away to collect the cuffs from the bedside table. 

They’re simple, elegant: just plain black leather with subtle gold buckles. He secures them around Adam’s wrists, tight enough that he won’t be able to ignore them. They fit perfectly, blend in with his pitch-black skin, the gold details making them look like they’re a part of his original design. (And in a way, David thinks, they are.) He doesn’t join the cuffs or activate them yet, just places Adam’s right hand above his head, pinning it to the wall.

A warm thrill of excitement rushes through him when Adam lifts his other arm, unprompted. He briefly wonders which one of them is more of a cliché: Adam with his need to submit, or he with his need to stay in control, but it hardly matters now that he finally has Adam where he wants him. Well, almost.

He reaches down to unzip Adam’s pants and slides them down, letting them fall to the floor. They do so easily, pooling around his ankles, revealing both his legs — God, he can’t wait to touch these — and his already half-hard cock — and ditto. He takes a step back and simply stares at Adam for a while. It’s almost too much. Yes, he’s seen him naked before, seen him assembled and remade, but nothing prepared him for this view. 

Damn. He really outdid himself.

David feels his own cock straining against his pants. He hasn’t been that hard since he was a teenager, and a part of him just wants to grind against Adam’s thigh right here, right now, or maybe push Adam to his knees, bury his fingers in his carefully stylized hair and fuck his mouth. It takes an enormous amount of restraint not to do this, especially when he realizes that Adam is still holding his arms above his head, wrists crossed where he left them. So beautifully, so utterly submissive. As if he weren’t perfect enough before.

“Get on the bed, Adam,” he finally manages. “On your knees.”

Yeah, he doesn’t mind being a cliché. At all.

“Yes, boss,” Adam replies. The corner of his mouth twitches; the urgency in David’s voice might amuse him, but he still obeys. He always does.

And nobody knows better than David how Adam’s prostheses work — hell, he designed them himself, spent months perfecting the prototypes — but to actually watch them now, that’s a whole different thing. 

David can barely tear his eyes away from Adam as he takes off his boots and steps out of his pants, then climbs on the bed. Even when he’s doing these mundane things, his naked body is a pleasure to watch. No, more than a pleasure; watching Adam makes him feels something that transcends desire, transcends pride.

His movements are graceful, precise but not mechanical —so much more elegant than a natural human could ever aspire to. There’s not a single gesture wasted, not a hint of hesitation in the mechanisms. And black was the right choice for him, too, David decides as he watches Adam kneel in the middle of the bed, glistening polymer and metal offset by the pale gold sheets. It emphasizes the fluidity of his movements, makes the lines of his limbs even more striking. Even with his head bowed, he still dominates the space, impossible to ignore. 

The seamless union of man and machine, moving together in perfect harmony. A perfect canvas turned into a masterpiece. _David’s_ masterpiece.

God, he can’t wait to fuck him.

Still, he takes his time undressing, both to keep Adam waiting just a little longer, and to give himself a chance to get his euphoria under control. The latter is clearly a lost cause; he risks one look over his shoulder as he removes his tie, and the view of Adam’s effortlessly still form makes him giddy with joy. Of course, there’s a small part of him that still focuses too much on how unexpected all of this is, how impossible, but he pushes it back. It’s unexpected, yes; impossible, maybe, but right. And well overdue. 

His hand lingers on the lapel of the jacket. It would be downright exciting to fuck Adam while still fully clothed, to let him feel the scrape of fabric over his naked skin, both artificial and natural. To make even more of his old fantasies come true, and it seems that Adam’s very presence brings them all back. He used to think about it a lot: Adam bent over his desk in his old office, cheek pressed into the smooth surface, moaning helplessly as David—

There’s still time for that, he decides, and starts unbuttoning his shirt, ridiculously glad for the fact that his fingers can’t shake. Adam is here, finally, and there’s still time for a lot of things. Tonight he needs to actually _feel_ Adam’s body under him. 

And that’s what he does when he finally gets on the bed. He settles behind Adam’s back, not closing the distance completely. Adam shifts slightly, expecting the contact, but he’s still collected enough ( _obedient enough_ , David’s mind helpfully supplies) not to pursue it, even as the muscles in his back tense in anticipation. David can feel the heat of his body radiating through the inch of empty space left between them, can hear the little catch in his breath when he leans forward.

“Jesus, Adam.” He pauses to tease the edge of Adam’s earlobe with his teeth; he can’t help himself. Then he whispers into his ear, “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

David’s not sure what makes Adam shiver, the words or the closeness, but he savors the sensation as his mouth moves from his ear to his jaw. He kisses a line along it, first slow, barely brushing against his beard, but then Adam throws his head back, baring his throat, and it’s — damn, it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, better than any fantasies he might’ve had: Adam’s half-closed eyes, exposed neck, the shaking breaths escaping his lips—

So much for trying to convince himself he can be patient tonight.

His mouth moves to Adam’s neck, curved in a long-overdue invitation, and he doesn’t even try to hold back any longer. His kisses become more erratic, hungrier, sloppier. With his eyes closed, he breathes in Adam’s scent, licks the sweat off his skin, and Adam sags against his chest, finally closing the gap between them, sighing with something not unlike relief. Blindly, he reaches out for David, his hand clasping his thigh, trying to draw him even closer.

And David lets him. He covers his hand with his own and looks down, absurdly charmed when Adam laces their fingers, squeezing gently. Black and gold, gold and black, they fit together perfectly. Just like he always knew they would. Just as he designed them to, back when Adam was still a promise, an idea. Not a man fighting for his life on the operating table. Not a warm body pressed against his.

The panic of almost losing him and the elation of getting him back blend into one when he pulls Adam into a bruising kiss, and Adam turns over his shoulder and kisses him back, hungry and desperate. Unexpected, impossible: none of this matters now that Adam is finally here — back in the States, in his apartment, in his bed. None of this matters when Adam’s mouth is so hot and welcoming, so pliant under his as he bites his lip, when Adam tilts his head and cups the nape of David’s neck to deepen the kiss, when he moans as David buries his fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer, chasing the faint aftertaste of whisky with his tongue, exploring Adam’s mouth properly now. 

None of this matters, because Adam is here — for good, for now, who knows — and all David can think is: _finally_.

When they separate, it’s sudden, like emerging from ice-cold water, and they breathe heavily against each other’s mouths, not moving away, not yet.

“Please,” Adam whispers again. 

His lips are dark, his voice rough and warm against his cheek, and David kisses him with a gentleness that almost surprises him. Maybe this should be enough, he thinks — to have a man like Adam in his bed, looking like every dirty fantasy he’s ever had and pleading for whatever he wanted to give him. It would be easy to just kiss him again and again until he forgets who Adam is, how much he _matters_ , blinded by the most basic instincts of human biology. And maybe for everyone else that would be enough. 

But David’s always prided himself on not being everyone else.

Adam leans back, resting his head on his shoulder, looking both overwhelmed and more relaxed than David’s ever seen him. David tightens the grip on his hair, tugs a little to tilt his head even further back — Adams moans, and it sends a shiver down his spine — then presses his mouth to the hollow of his throat. This time, he’s slow, methodical; he searches for the line of Adam’s pulse, then plants kisses along it, as if to ground himself in the reliable pattern of it. 

“Anything you want, Adam,” he mutters into his skin. 

And at this moment, he really means it, there’s no doubt about it; no secrets, no small print. He reaches down and gives Adam’s cock an experimental stroke, nice and slow, then another when he feels him thrust into his hand already, hips bucking in response to David’s touch. He settles into a lazy rhythm, rewarded by Adam’s gasps and quiet curses. 

With Adam’s body pressed flush against him, with his pulse hot and fast under his lips, it’s so easy to forget how unbreakable he is now — how unbreakable _David_ made him. Even regulated by the artificial heart, his heartbeat is too real, too human. He shouldn’t be surprised. He gave him the best model Sarif Industries had, and his company never believed improvement came through erasing the erratic beauty of the human body. And it _is_ beautiful, the frantic rhythm of it a perfect imitation of vulnerability, but— 

Damn, to think he almost lost him. 

He lets his mouth linger over Adam’s jugular for another moment, relishing the feeling of his skin — so warm and alive, despite — against — everything, then he presses a quick kiss to the edge of his jaw.

“Adam—” he starts. 

Stops when he stares down, just in time to see him thrust into his hand. The muscles in Adam’s thighs tense up with every movement; they’d be trembling by now if they were natural. And he looks almost painfully hard now, his moans growing more and more desperate, the frantic jerks of his hips in stark contrast with the steady rhythm of David’s hand. 

He twists his wrist just right, tightening his grip just a bit — damn, he’s so grateful to his engineers for _this_ level of fine motor control — and can’t help feeling smug at the way Adam’s hips buck up sharply, at the surprised gasp he draws from him. His head falls back against his shoulder, and David presses his lips to his neck and sucks at — God, he huffs a laugh, at Adam’s Adam’s apple — at his _throat_ right when he swallows hard, a shaking breath escaping his lips.

It’s almost intoxicating, seeing Adam like this, watching him come undone under his hands, under his mouth. Even to David, he’s a bit of a mystery sometimes. (Hell, he still doesn’t know what exactly he’s doing in the States. _Business_ was all he said when he tried to ask him at the bar, and for Adam, that could mean anything from an official Interpol mission to his more… private investigations.) And while the secrets and constant brooding have a certain noirish charm, he much prefers this version of him: finally rid of that tightly coiled self-control, open and pliant and so goddamn responsive.

Almost too responsive, if the increasingly chaotic pattern of his thrusts is anything to go by. David pulls his hand away; as tempting as it is to test the impact of the Sentinel on Adam’s refractory period — a note he files away for later, and damn, even with how fast he goes through it tonight, that file is getting longer by the minute — he wants this to last, to keep Adam right on the verge for as long as he can.

A low, frustrated whimper threatens to break his resolve, going straight to his loins. Adam’s hand shoots out to stop David’s, inhumanly fast, but the grip on his wrist is weak, irresolute, the way everything else about Adam isn’t. David breaks his hold easily — just as Adam wants him to, of course; he knows too much about the tech he put into Adam to hold any delusions about being able to overpower him — and he wraps his fingers around his wrist, over the cuff.

“Always so impatient, huh?” he says, pinning Adam’s hand to his thigh. “You got somewhere else to be?”

Adam—actually laughs. It’s brief and breathless, but it sounds… good. Genuine. Yeah, David prefers that version by a mile. 

“Secret military bases. Terrorist camps. Underground lairs,” Adam recounts, and it’s downright flattering how out of air he sounds. “You know, the usual.”

“I really wouldn’t want to stop you, then,” he teases, and slides his hand down.

If Adam has some clever answer to that, it’s muffled by a strangled whimper that escapes him when David traces his finger down his inner thigh. The warm myomer shifts under his touch as Adam tenses, then shuffles on the bed, spreading his legs further. 

His hand, however, stays right where David laid it, splayed flat on his thigh. The effort behind its stillness is betrayed only by the way his fingers dig into the artificial skin. Were they flesh and bone, their knuckles would be white; were his skin natural, it would bruise. But now only an echo of discomfort remains — more of a warning than some genuinely unpleasant sensation.

And David presses down too, gently, just enough to feel the muscles yield, to stir the sensors of the erogenous zones; it would be a shame if a body like Adam’s only knew how to recognize pain. Thankfully, even after all these years, he remembers the map of his body all too well. Better than Adam himself, if his surprised gasps are anything to go by.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he mutters into Adam’s ear. His fingers stray closer to his groin, careful and precise. “Still got somewhere to go?” 

If David wanted to see him truly overwhelmed, well, he got his wish — Adam’s shoulder blades dig into his chest as he arches his back, desperately trying to press into his palm, chasing his touch, needing more — and fuck, if Adam were to come now, just from the biofeedback from his augs, David wouldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t even want to stop him.

He _needs_ to stop himself, though. With the downright pornographic sounds Adam makes and the way he grinds against his cock with every movement, it’s a real testament to his self-discipline that he’s not humping his leg yet like some desperate teenager — and with Adam in his bed, he really feels like one. But even he has his limits, and this entire evening has already stretched them pretty thin.

So he slides his hands up, slowly; he carefully avoids Adam’s cock. Even then, he needs to pin Adam’s hips down to keep him in place. And… well, a comparison wouldn’t be quite fair; it’s not exactly a properly set up scientific experiment — and David wouldn’t mind some more rigorous hypothesis testing in the future — but it’s immensely satisfying to see Adam react much more strongly to the feedback from his augs than he did to a fucking handjob. Tai Yong might’ve gotten his patents and his tech, but they’d never create something half as good as the augs he designed for Adam. It’s some of the best bioengineering work he’s ever seen, and Adam took to it beautifully. Just like David always knew he would.

Finally, he forces himself to pull away, stopping Adam with a hand on his shoulder when he tries to follow him. The foot of space he puts between them feels strangely wide now. It should be more than enough distance to let him pull himself together, yet somehow it doesn’t seem to help. Only makes him want to touch Adam’s body more. 

He lets his hand wander down, meandering and slow, fingers lazily brushing against Adam’s skin, the microsensors at their tips picking up even the tiniest motions of the muscles shifting underneath. Once it rests between his shoulder blades, David stops; waits until Adam relaxes into his touch, and then — shoves down. 

The servos in Adam’s elbows and wrists whir in overdrive when his reflex boosters barely manage to stop him from landing face down on the pillow. It’s not a particularly graceful fall; Adam lands hard on the bed, one hand clenched into a fist, the other splayed on the sheets, head hanging low between his shoulders. He huffs a surprised laugh — and damn, David could really get used to that sound — then lifts himself up, propped on his forearms.

“An upgrade, huh?” Adam asks over his shoulder.

“What, you thought these were just for the show?”

“These investors meetings must be more vicious than I imagined.”

David snorts. “You wouldn’t believe it. Golf can be pretty brutal.” Then he adds, hoping to sound nonchalant, “And I don’t have a bodyguard these days.”

Adam does raise an eyebrow at that, but says nothing. His eyes don’t leave David as he moves to the head of the bed. It’s not the sharp, watchful stare David learned to associate with him back when he worked at SI — always alert, whether he was quietly scanning the visitors in the foyer after another bomb threat or drinking that awful coffee at the canteen during a graveyard shift. No, the way Adam looks at him now — and it’s good to see his eyes again, these shades were a mistake — is half surrender, half invitation, and pure need beneath both. It’s even more intoxicating than he expected.

Nobody else gets to see Adam like that, he thinks. Nobody else he’d trust that much. 

Adam’s beard bristles under his fingers when David strokes his cheek, his quick breath warming the base of his thumb where it rests against his parted lips. He still has no idea what prompted any of this — why or why now, he’s not sure which question he should be asking — but it feels right. Somehow easier and more relaxed than anything that’s happened between them over the last three years. It’s too damn good to focus on the reasons; these can wait until morning. Or lunchtime, he decides as he feels Adam turn to kiss his fingers. Or next week. 

He brushes his thumb against Adam’s cheekbone, then reaches down for his cuffed wrist and brings it to his mouth. The angle is awkward, but Adam doesn’t protest, just rotates his hand with the faintest hum of the servos when David kisses it again. The tip of his tongue traces the lines on Adam’s palm, and there’s a certain thrill in the knowledge that he put them there, overwriting whatever destiny someone a lot more superstitious might’ve read from Adam’s hand, replacing it with something simpler, sharper; focused. Something hopelessly entangled with his own. 

Another kiss, and then he puts Adam’s hand down, next to the headboard, stroking the soft leather of the cuff. The mattress shifts slightly; Adam already rearranges himself on the bed. Unprompted, he places his left hand next to the one that David holds, just like he did earlier this evening, and this — this is the best sort of déjà vu one could’ve asked for. 

He can only wish Adam had been always that good at following his orders. 

At last, David joins the cuffs, securing them to the headboard, and presses the small gold panel right over the spot where Adam’s pulse would be. The default setting comes with enough of a lag for Adam to find a comfortable position for himself before the EM field kicks in. Not that his arms can exactly get tired, and he knows perfectly well how good Adam is at keeping still when he needs to. But making him _endure_ anything is not the point of tonight.

Adam tests the cuffs: carefully, like he’s wary of his own strength. Maybe he is; the headboard wouldn’t stand much chance against his augs. David can’t help but smile at this caution. He almost wants to tell him how unnecessary it will soon be, but he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise for him. Adam really needs this, David thinks, watching him loosely fold his hands on the pillow, movements overly cautious and precise. He needs one night of not having to hold back, of giving up that tightly wound control he built his entire life on. One night of letting someone else make the decisions. 

No wonder Adam came to him. (No wonder he came back.) While David always prided himself on being a self-made man, Adam was constructed — both literally and figuratively — by others. He seemed lost without guidance, without a purpose. To offer him that, in every way he needed? Yes, David could do this. 

He still remembers when Megan brought him to his office for the first time, how aimless and lost he seemed — was — back then. David was skeptical, at first. In person, Adam was much less impressive than the unbelievable DNA reports Megan had shown him. Capable, sure, experienced, certainly; smarter than he let on, and yes, even then, very handsome — but David had naively hoped for something more. Adam hardly looked like a promise of a new era: sitting a bit too straight in the armchair, replying to David’s questions with brusque efficiency that belonged in some austere police interrogation room, nothing but a smoker’s twitch revealing how nervous he was. 

He gave him a chance, back then; half a year later, a body that fulfilled his potential. But above all, he gave Adam purpose. Compared to that, giving him one night (or a dozen — and he hoped Adam would stay long enough for that) of mindless pleasure was nothing. No sacrifice at all. 

Their eyes meet when Adam looks up at him, a slight smile on his lips that’s almost as tentative as the way he tested the give of the cuffs. 

“David?” he half says, half asks, like he’s trying it out. 

And David doesn’t know what his name tastes like in Adam’s mouth, but at least to him, it sounds better than any name has any right to sound, all but torn from Adam’s throat, his raspy voice made even hoarser with lust. Then Adam licks his lips, quickly, a little nervous gesture — and it’s a nice thought, that he can make a man like Adam nervous — and he looks down, then up again. David smiles.

This time he doesn’t need to wonder what Adam asks for, even if he’s too overwhelmed or — and that’s an absurdly endearing thought, too, even if he’d prefer to hear Adam beg — too shy to put it into words. He moves closer, knees digging into the mattress next to Adam’s arms, and cups his jaw, tracing his parted lips with his thumb; Adam’s breath quickens as he tries to shift even closer to him. His skin is impossibly hot under David’s touch when he slides his hand back to Adam’s neck. Slowly, patiently, he guides Adam’s mouth to his cock — but all that patience is gone when Adam’s lips wrap around its head.

Adam’s—not particularly experienced, it seems. He sucks cock like it’s a pastime he left behind in steamy locker rooms of his college and police training, neither setting David has ever particularly cared for. But somehow, this lack of finesse makes it even better; it’s been a while since he had slept with someone who had to make up for the lack of skill in enthusiasm, and he forgot how good this kind of clumsy eagerness could feel. And the way Adam glances up at him through his eyelashes, uncertain and attentive, is outright charming — as if he doesn’t realize that David is too happy to finally have him here to evaluate his technique. That short of biting his dick off, there is nothing Adam could do to ruin this for him.

He reaches down and strokes Adam’s cheek, briefly brushing his thumb over the corner of his mouth — it twitches under his fingertip, and his cock twitches along with it — then wipes the trail of saliva off his chin. God, that view alone was worth waiting all these years; Adam looks gorgeous like that, with his lips stretched around his cock, cheeks flushed with exertion, the lenses of his eyes shifting as he strains to look up, all his attention laser-focused on David and his pleasure — but as much as David wants to drag this out, right now he needs more. 

He slides his hand into Adam’s hair, making even more of a mess out of it, completing the lewd picture before him. Adam makes a surprised noise when he pulls him closer, but doesn’t even try to move away, just swallows instinctively, once, twice, and— _fuck_ , does something with his tongue that’s probably accidental, but feels better than any sophisticated trick anyone has ever tried on him. He gives him time to adjust, then tilts Adam’s head bit by bit, raising on his knees to get a better angle, and thrusts into Adam’s mouth, sliding deeper with every move, his pace slow but insistent.

When he hits the back of his throat, Adam chokes around him, and it takes decades of self-control to slow down and pull back a bit, but Adam presses forward when David tries to retreat, as if determined to take as much of his cock as he can. Which ends up being… damn, pretty much all of it; he gasps when he feels Adam’s lips around the base of his cock, his nose buried in his pubic hair. Any complaints he might’ve had about his technique fly out of the window as he cups the back of his head, drawing him even closer. It feels amazing, and almost too much when Adam doesn’t pull away immediately like he expected him to, but stays like that for impossibly long, almost motionless, his mouth a hot, agonizingly perfect pressure around him. 

Damn, he’s so glad he decided to put that rebreather in him. 

Their eyes meet again when David stares down, and the look on Adam’s face is half sheer exhilaration of someone who jumps off skyscrapers for fun, half complete smugness, which, as far as David’s concerned — and he very much _is_ — seems every bit earned. 

“Fuck, Adam,” he manages. Barely. Then he adds, inspired, “Fuck.”

The corner of Adam’s mouth twitches again. He finally slides back, leisurely slow, and all David wants is to stop him halfway through and fuck his mouth like he’s been dying to since the beginning of the evening. Or since forever. Maybe that long wait should make letting Adam move away easier — what’s five minutes to three years? — but it really doesn’t. David needs to gather all the shreds of control he’s got left not to tighten his grip on Adam’s hair.

It's worth the view when Adam pulls back and finally breathes, loud and open-mouthed, lips glistening with spit, laughter bubbling underneath. He leans his forehead against David’s hip, his breath warming his thigh in a slowly relaxing rhythm of his inhales and exhales. His beard feels soft on David’s oversensitive skin when he nuzzles against his leg, surprisingly affectionate.

He could get used to seeing Adam like that; an unexpected kind of warmth spreads in his chest when he realizes he just might. 

He needs to crouch to kiss him. Even then, the angle is not the most comfortable, but Adam is soft and warm under him, pliant as David’s tongue brushes against his lips, his tongue, his teeth, the roof of his mouth. Feeling him surrender so completely is definitely worth risking a pulled muscle or two. To create a man like Adam, to transform the human body into something so beautiful, so strong, so deadly, so goddamn perfect — and then to be the one to bring this perfect body to heel, to see it writhe in pleasure under him, so completely (so _willingly_ ) at his mercy — yes, that’s worth risking a lot more. 

Still, he breaks away, panting. Sooner than Adam wanted, apparently. A frustrated moan escapes his throat, and he cranes his neck, trying to kiss David again. He’s not fast enough, though, either too cautious or too dazed to use his Quicksilver now, and thank God for that. It gives David enough time to back away before he does something stupid, like leaning down to kiss him again, just because Adam wants him to. Or letting him finish that blowjob. But no matter how tempting it is — and Adam’s enthusiasm makes it very tempting — David’s not going to last much longer if Adam touches him again, and that’s definitely not how he wants this night to end.

Well, it’s not like it can’t wait until tomorrow morning, David thinks, even if Adam needs to leave early. The mental image — oh, who is he kidding: images, plural — flood his mind. Adam leaning over him, lazily bobbing his head up and down, dark hair falling on his forehead. Adam’s black and gold fingers wrapped around the length of David’s cock. Adam kneeling between his legs, letting him fuck his mouth, taking him as deep as David wants him to. Or maybe he could suck Adam off, watch him come apart under his mouth, hear him— fuck, even imagining this almost pushes him over the edge. 

That’s exactly the problem with Adam’s body, isn’t it? It always gave David too many ideas, made him want too many things. Yet somehow, no matter how many projects or fantasies he’s collected, every opportunity to realize his plans has caught him by surprise. And he is — always was — good at improvising — you don’t come as far as he did without that — but he’d quite like a chance to plan something out properly, three years ago or this evening. 

At least tonight he’s got more than one shot at fulfilling his fantasies. And the only possible threat to his plans is how goddamn distracting Adam is. Even now, a foot away from his body, David’s all too tempted to close the distance and touch him again. Adam looks — well, gorgeous really doesn’t cut it anymore. David’s one step from the dangerous territory of comparing Adam to an ancient Greek statue or something equally ridiculous. 

In his defense, it is a pretty apt comparison. His gaze slides across Adam’s body: his strong, perfectly sculpted arms; the muscles of his shoulders, shifting under his skin as he bows his head; the curve of his arched back, a sheen of sweat glistening on his flawless skin; his long black legs, shining dully against the sheets. 

Yes, David’s pretty sure he’s seen things carved out of marble that looked less perfect. 

He tears his eyes away from Adam and reaches into the nightstand, desperately needing to distract himself. _A masterpiece_ , goes through his head again. It might not be the most fitting train of thought to be stuck on while doing something as mundane as searching for the lube, but he never quite understood people who insisted pragmatism should be dull. He decides against a condom; he didn’t put the Sentinel in Adam to worry about fucking him bare now. And he wants to really feel him while he fucks him, feel and— fuck, it’s such a primal urge it almost surprises him, but the thought of marking Adam, of ruining that perfection even a bit is insanely appealing. 

_A fucking masterpiece,_ David thinks, deliberately this time, delighted with how these words sound in his mind. He imagines how his come would look like against the carbon black of Adam’s thighs, and swallows: loud enough that Adam must’ve caught it, augmented hearing or not.

“You’re a true work of art, you know that?”

He doesn’t really expect a reply — for all his usual confidence, Adam never could take a compliment — but it feels good to say that aloud. Another thing he had to wait too long for. And it feels almost surreal, to realize that the wait’s over. That Adam’s here, even more beautiful than he remembered, more eager than he ever dared to imagine, and utterly irresistible.

Three years. Three fucking years.

It’s tempting to brush the thought aside and decide it doesn’t matter, but David can’t quite convince himself to ignore it. Of course, if he had wanted to, he could’ve had Adam years ago, but would he be able to truly appreciate it then? To savor it the way he can now? 

He’s changed, yes. He was forced to change; both of them were. To adapt to a world that shifted overnight, a world that hated everything he stood for, everything he built. No amount of platitudes would make him grateful for that — not when he’s lost so much — but if it brought them to this point? The least he can do is to enjoy himself now.

So he settles behind Adam, nudging his legs apart. And again, Adam complies so easily, so keenly, like following David’s direction is the most natural thing in the world. Like he was made for this. (And maybe he was, David thinks.) A new wave of pleasure threatens to overwhelm him. It’s far beyond the physical — it drowns out his body’s reactions and multiplies them at once. Yes, he’s glad he’s waited. This perfect, instinctive submission? He wouldn’t get this three years ago.

His cock brushes against Adam’s ass when he leans forward to kiss the nape of his neck, but he doesn’t let himself focus on the sensation. He’s too close; now is not the time to rush through things. 

If he could, David would take hours like that: touching Adam, tasting him, admiring him. 

Vertebra by vertebra, he kisses his way down Adam’s back, stopping to swirl his tongue around the hard lump of the Typhoon processor at the base of his spine. Under his lips, Adam’s skin is unbearably hot. A drop of sweat rolls down over the curve of his ass and David chases it until it reaches the edge where flesh becomes polymer. The skin there healed perfectly; Adam’s limbs look like they simply grew out of his body, like they were always there. 

He moves to Adam’s leg then, still excited with how real the muscles feel under his fingers, under his mouth. It’s some of his best work, as powerful as the limbs his team designed for the defense contracts, but still so lifelike, so human. So damn responsive, he thinks as he stops to suck on a particularly sensitive place on his thigh — he still knows these by heart — hard enough it would leave a bruise on natural skin, and Adam’s breath hitches.

Then he feels Adam tense. It’s amazing how recognizable the sensation is, how well it’s translated into his artificial muscles. David throws a quick glance at him, rubbing his thumb across the wet spot he’s just kissed. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t actually hurt him, but a malfunctioning sensor—

But he notices how Adam tries to shift his weight on the bed, his back taut in the effort to look up at his cuffed hands. Even without seeing his face, David can easily imagine the concerned look on his face, that frown he often wanted to kiss off Adam’s face during their past debriefs.

He smiles. Ah. Finally. 

“Sarif, wait.” Adam shakes his head slightly, as if trying to clear his head. Or his HUD, more likely. “There’s something wrong with my augs. I can’t—” 

“Just relax, Adam.”

There’s a pause, like Adam can’t quite process the nonchalance in his words, and maybe through the haze of pleasure, it takes him some effort. “It’s the cuffs?”

David stifles a laugh. It took Adam long enough to notice; he supposes he should take the credit for distracting him so thoroughly. He continues his trail up Adam’s thigh, teasing him with his tongue, his lips. Soon enough he hears him moan again, and smiles, his mouth still pressed into the smooth, carbon black skin. 

He barely manages to grasp Adam’s leg when he suddenly tries to pull away. And damn, he’s fast. David straightens up, one hand splayed on his hip, not letting him get away. 

“Is it the cuffs, Sarif?” Adam repeats, trying to look at him. There’s the tiniest hint of panic in his voice. “I can’t move my arms.”

“But you can still feel everything, can’t you?” Slowly, he moves his hand from Adam’s hip to his arched back, and rubs comforting lemniscates into the tight muscles along his spine. “Don’t worry, these are custom made, it’s not your typical EMP. Just enough to keep you right where I want you.” 

“Just… turn them off, then,” Adam says. He sounds like he needs to make an effort to keep his voice level, and judging from the way his muscles shift under David’s hand, helplessly leaning into his touch, he probably does. “Please.”

“You wanted this, remember?” He traces a single finger along Adam’s spine, and smiles when it earns him a shiver. “It was your idea.”

“I changed my mind,” Adam says quietly. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“You wanted this,” David repeats. “I know what you need. Just let go. Relax.”

He leans forward, propped on one arm, and kisses Adam’s shoulder, first the artificial part, then the natural skin right next to it. The contrast feels almost dizzying; sometimes he forgets how much of Adam is still human, vulnerable. He licks his skin, chasing this sensation, both tasting and smelling his sweat, licks a long line along his neck, inhales the lingering scent of alcohol and cigarettes. There’s a different kind of warmth to natural parts of his body, a different texture polycarbonate doesn’t even pretend to imitate.

“Sarif, stop, just uncuff—”

David doesn’t let him finish, and slides two fingers into his mouth instead. There’s a moment of hesitation from Adam — a second, really, but it feels oddly longer — but then he licks them obediently, and — _fuck_. 

David can barely form a coherent thought when thousands of sensors fire up the pleasure centers of his brain. He presses down on Adam’s tongue, too hard, overwhelmed by the sensory input. A low groan escapes Adam’s throat, but not his lips, caught vibrating against the metal of his fingers. _Fuck_. Adam’s mouth feels amazing, even more so on his fingers than on his cock. The heat, the wetness, the scrape of teeth under David’s knuckles, the brush of Adam’s tongue as it tries to retreat — all of this recorded in the finest detail, translated into a pleasure so vivid and complex that a natural body strains to comprehend it. So intense it threatens to send him over the edge.

“You asked for this, Adam,” he whispers hoarsely into his ear. Adam groans when he pulls their bodies even closer, his chest now flush against Adam’s back, his erection pressed against his ass. “That’s why you came to me. That’s what you wanted.”

Adam tries to reply, or maybe moans around his fingers, and David shivers at the sensation. He buries his face in the crook of Adam’s neck and nips at the skin there, hard enough to bruise. Even that mark won’t last long: a strangely disappointing thought that he’s got no time to dwell on now. It’s a small price for making Adam perfect, he supposes. He licks the mark, tracing his tongue against the metal reinforcement embedded right over Adam’s collarbone – there might be no sensors there, but he just can’t help himself. 

Underneath him, Adam’s shoulders lose some of their tension. When David withdraws the fingers from his mouth, he simply lets his head drop and swallows loudly. His breath is quick, uneven; a match for David’s, for sure. 

David kisses the hot skin on the nape of his neck, then slides his hand down. With his fingers slick with Adam’s saliva, it takes him no effort to stroke him back to hardness. Soon Adam moans again, lost in pleasure, and David reluctantly moves his hand away — he smiles when Adam buries his face in a pillow, frustrated — then straightens up.

He reaches for the forgotten bottle of lube, hands moving so fast it almost makes him laugh. All that fine engineering, all the processing power, and he’s using it to flip the cap open as quick as he can without crushing the bottle in his fist. The mechanisms of his fingers are infinitely patient and steady, even when his mind is definitely not — and still they barely keep up with his urgency. Somehow, miraculously, David manages not to break the bottle, but he ends up with a more than generous amount of lube all over his palm. Good. He wants Adam to be as comfortable as he can.

And damn, it is an unspeakable relief to touch himself again. He doesn’t even mind the coolness; it feels almost soothing as he drags his slick hand up and down the length of his cock, setting the slowest pace he can manage.

He wants this to last, to prolong this as much as he can — but why? Out of nowhere, a sudden worry gnaws at the back of his head. Is it because a part of him suspects that this will end up being almost perfunctory? A simple act of biology, the most basic search for physical release. Something trivial, mundane; insignificant when their connection is anything but. 

Well, only one way to find out. 

He enters Adam in one swift motion and for a moment, he doesn’t move, his senses overcome by pleasure that drowns out any concerns he might have. Perfunctory? As if. Under him, Adam lets out a broken cry, stifled by the pillow, and this is alone is the best sound he’s ever heard. Fuck, he’d love to see his face now — but if he’d stare into Adam’s eyes ( _his eyes_ , he thinks, and a shiver runs down his spine) he’d come right this moment, he’s sure of that. 

Finally, he moves, and damn, he’s not in the mood for teasing anymore, not when Adam feels so good, so hot and tight around him. Better than he imagined, if that’s even possible. His fingers dig into Adam’s hips, hard enough that if they were still flesh, they’d bruise. But Adam’s past that, past the human fragility and limitations; he can feel everything David wants him to feel without being hurt. So David sets a fast, relentless pace, fucks Adam like he’s wanted to for years, like he could make up for the time — the world — they lost. 

Below him Adam is—quiet. Quieter than David expected. Quieter than he wanted, maybe. With Adam’s face still pressed into the pillow, all that David gets to hear is his quickened breath and a muffled gasp or two when he switches the angle a bit. It’s endearing in its own way, though. It’s like Adam is simply overwhelmed by the sensations, like it’s almost too much for him — and that David certainly doesn’t mind. 

(Still, he hopes he will manage to make him beg the next time. A voice like Adam’s is wasted on these quiet moans.) 

David leans forward, thrusting even deeper into Adam, and reaches between his legs. Adam’s cock already rock hard in his grip. A couple of strokes and he’s pushing into David’s fist. A couple more and Adam comes with a barely audible groan. 

He shivers while David fucks him through his orgasm. Soon his body goes slack, completely spent and relaxed, all traces of tension gone from it. Exactly what Adam needed, David thinks, then presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the spot on Adam’s shoulder where skin meets metal.

And he’s close, too, so damn close that he can’t think straight anymore. So close, and there’s no need to hold himself back now. He grabs Adam’s hips and fucks him deeper, fucks him harder; the rhythm of his thrusts as fast and relentless as his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

David cries out as he comes buried deep inside Adam, fingers clasping his hips and pulling him closer, closer. His climax hits him like a revelation; it’s just like an idea that wakes you up in the middle of the night, like the excitement when you find an elegant solution to a complicated problem, like the second when puzzle pieces finally fall together. And at this moment, they do, perfect and uncaring of the world falling apart around them. 

He all but collapses on top of Adam, one hand still gripping his hip, head tucked into his shoulder. It was— fuck, more than he ever imagined, more than he wanted. The relief so deep, the pleasure so powerful, the satisfaction so complete he can barely believe it. 

Lazily, he strokes Adam’s thigh, his hip, his side, anywhere he can reach, not ready to move away yet. David’s fingers brush against the constellation of bolts and scars spread across his chest, until his hand rests right at the center of it. Underneath, Adam’s heartbeat is still rapid, but it gradually slows down, and for a moment, David thinks, the rhythms of their hearts, natural and artificial, match perfectly. 

He rolls off Adam, then falls on his back next to him, the satisfaction starting to settle deep into his bones. When was the last time he felt so damn relaxed? Long before the Incident, long before the Tyrants attack. Back when his life’s trajectory seemed certain and when Adam was nothing but a dream, a beautiful promise that he never thought he’d get a chance to see realized — and certainly not in Adam’s own body. 

Back when that perfect body next to him was nothing but a couple of sketches David had drawn after waking up at four AM, full of ideas and desire.

He used to be afraid about that, worried that the Adam he would meet could never live up to the Adam he remembered, the act to the fantasy. But there he is, like a living reminder of the times when David’s future looked bright, his dreams not only alive but thriving. Sometimes it feels like Adam’s all that’s left of these dreams now. Maybe that could be enough. Maybe that was a reward in itself: to help Adam reach his potential, to see him transformed — to transform him — into a perfect human being. After all, there weren’t that many people who saw their greatest dream fulfilled. 

He presses his calf into Adam’s, chasing away the thought that the same could be said about nightmares.

The warm afterglow of the orgasm makes him drowsy, detached. Somewhere out there, there’s a world that hates them both; people who will stop at nothing to bring him and Adam down. At this moment, they seem remote, unreal. Inconsequential. 

He only realizes he’s started drifting away when he hears Adam’s rough voice.

“Sarif?” 

“Yeah?”

“Uncuff me.”

David huffs a laugh; he almost forgot about these. He rolls to his side and reaches for Adam’s shoulder, then slowly slides his hand up to his wrist. Along the way, he feels the soft tingle of EMP: a strange prickly feeling on his skin when the pulses fail to recognize the boundaries of Adam’s body and jump from his arm to David’s palm, temporarily dampening some of the sensors there. Blindly, he feels for the gold panel on the inside of Adam’s wrist, then presses it. With a quiet click, the cuffs disengage and deactivate. The phantom itch in his fingers disappears immediately.

He strokes the thin strip of the wrist right above the cuff with his thumb, then moves his hand down, following the gentle buzz of electricity spreading deep under the polycarbonate. Inch by inch, thousands of signals wake up the labyrinth of frozen pathways between Adam’s biochip and his augs, and his arms come back to life. They tense and relax involuntarily at the sensation, and David kneads the muscle gently. Like a tamed animal, it slowly stops twitching under his hand. 

His fingers slip off Adam’s forearm in the middle of the caress, landing on the mattress with a soft thud, and David looks up, confused. Adam all but yanks his arm away from him, then scrambles off the bed. He moves fast — too fast for David to try to stop him, his rudimentary reflex enhancers no match for Adam’s, especially in the post-climax haze — but there’s something off in his movements. Something clumsy. He stumbles backward, one drunk step after another. And sure, maybe he stood up too rapidly, but his vestibular implants should’ve easily taken care of any—

This wakes David up. He sits up on the bed, watching as Adam starts picking awkwardly at the cuffs. There’s a stutter in his fingers that looks just—odd. Alien when coupled with the elegant mechanisms of his limbs. The gold imprints on the back of his hand catch the light when his fingers slip off the buckles. They’re uncoordinated, unsteady; everything that Adam isn’t. Shouldn’t be. 

A thought, cold and sudden, flashes in his mind: the EMP should be perfectly safe, but he hasn’t used these cuffs for a while. If something— if someone—

He moves to the edge of the bed. “Adam?” 

Adam freezes at that. His fingers stop halfway through the gesture, lingering over his wrist. He doesn’t reply. Somehow, his silence feels even stranger than the sudden clumsiness. Even stranger right after David fucked him. 

Not the best moment to dwell on that, David decides. He gets up, closing the distance between them in two decisive strides. 

“Come on, son, let me help,” he says, reaching out for Adam’s wrist.

Adam flinches back. 

“Don’t,” he says, something angry and disoriented lurking in his voice. He doesn’t look up.

Jesus, he forgot how stubborn Adam can be sometimes.

Patiently, David reaches for his hand again. This time, Adam doesn’t pull away. He still doesn’t look at him, and hell, no wonder he’s embarrassed by his overreaction. He holds still — so still David’s not sure he remembers to breathe — and lets him take the cuffs off. David unbuckles them slowly, both to give Adam some time to calm down and to examine his wrists for any signs of damage. He finds none and almost sighs with relief. He’s getting too paranoid lately.

Once he unfastens the last buckle, David lifts Adam’s hand to his lips. Or at least he tries to. As soon as his fingers move from Adam’s wrist to his palm, Adam wrenches his hand away. Wrenches _himself_ away, in an impossibly fast whirl of black and gold. Even if Adam hadn’t caught him by surprise — and he very much did — David would be too mesmerized to react. He really needs to have a proper look at Adam’s new enhancements. As much as he despised Orlov, some of his ideas were downright inspired. 

Maybe… not now, though.

Adam still looks a bit dazed, even as he stands firmer on his feet than David would’ve expected after the sudden rush. His fingers curl around his left wrist where it’s pressed protectively to his chest. For a moment, he tries to rub away whatever phantom feeling the cuff left behind, then he lets his hand fall, like he’s realizing the futility of the gesture. With his head still bowed, his eyes dark and wary, he looks around — on the bed, on the floor, on the armchair by the dresser, finally settling on the wall — everywhere but on David. 

He looks about as confused as David feels. 

“What’s gotten into you?” David asks, taken aback. Then he adds, curiosity getting the better of him, “Was that the Icarus Dash? Have they managed to solve the issues with balance? The wave—”

“I told you to stop,” Adam says, quiet but firm. 

He passes by David to grab his pants from the floor. David turns around, staring at him in disbelief, but — Adam actually seems serious.

“What are you…” David starts. Then it clicks. “Come on, Adam, you don’t mean it.” When Adam doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at him, he adds, “You wanted this. I know we didn’t exactly talk this through, but… You must know this isn’t the sort of thing where ‘stop’ means anything. And if you really meant it — damn, son, you know I _would_ stop. But you certainly didn’t seem to mind me… continuing,” he finishes, almost awkwardly.

Adam clenches his fist. For the briefest moment David’s sure he’ll end up with an aug-shaped hole in his wall — and Jesus, dealing with a renovation on top of everything is going to be a headache — but then something in Adam’s face shifts. He braces his fist against the wall, incongruously gently, like he’s too aware ( _afraid_ , David’s mind suggests) of his own strength. Which, to be fair, he probably is. He’d be a fool not to be.

David doesn’t rush him, just watches Adam stand there. His mind catalogs all the details: the way Adam’s stark profile stands out against the dark wallpaper, how his chest moves with every shallow breath; the thin, angry line of his lips. Even now, he looks gorgeous, David realizes, the thought accompanied by a sudden wave of something not unlike tenderness. Yes, Adam can be stubborn and ridiculous, sometimes too withdrawn to let anyone else in, but… He’s all that David has left. A living reminder of all his hopes and dreams that sank together with Panchaea. 

A reminder that they have drowned there, too, and yet here they are.

“Yeah,” Adam says, eventually. “I didn’t, did I.”

It’s not quite an invitation, but — David will take that. He walks up to Adam, the way he imagines one would approach a tamed dangerous animal: not too slow, not too fast, cautious but relentless. 

Adam’s leg twitches. The movement seems so lifelike: an impulse even his systems can’t control. (It’s a lie, David knows, but a very convincing one. Under Adam’s skin, electric signals travel back and forth, thousands of systems working on translating them into an action that looks so natural it would fool even the person that designed it. A perfect illusion.) His knee bends and unbends, like he wants to take a step backward, but decides against it.

That, at least, is encouraging. David closes the space between them and when Adam doesn’t back off, he reaches out, then hesitates, his hand hovering over the smooth metal plate connecting Adam’s leg to his hip. Adam shudders, and tenses, but doesn’t move away. And David will take that, too.

“I’m glad we cleared that up, Adam,” he says, and looks up, smiling. Adam doesn’t smile back, but then again, does he ever? “It was just a little miscommunication, right? And I get it, no handcuffs next time.” It would be a shame, though. Adam looked absolutely fantastic cuffed up. “Or, I don’t know, maybe we can use a safeword. Something to—” 

“Next time?” Adam repeats, incredulous. “There will be no next time.”

He doesn’t really sound like he means it, though, even as he carefully avoids David’s hand. Just like his words, his movements lack any conviction; when David finally cups his hip, Adam— doesn’t quite lean into his touch, but allows David to pull him in, until he can read his name imprinted on Adam’s eyes.

Only then David lets his hand wander, finally letting it rest in the middle of Adam’s chest. Under his palm, Adam’s natural skin is warm, pleasant to touch. Underneath his skin, David can feel the thin layer of the dermal armor — so thin he’s sure a natural hand would never perceive it. Underneath that, safe in a reinforced ribcage, Adam’s heart, not skipping a beat even as David pulls him closer.

Underneath it all, woven into Adam’s body as tightly as their fates are, a double helix. The future itself; humanity’s greatest hope and the cause of its fall. Everything that makes Adam, Adam. (Everything that made Adam his.) Everything that’s brought them to this point, that brings them together over and over, and always will. Everything—

David barely manages to grab Adam’s hand when he suddenly breaks away. Even that is futile; with a clever twist of his wrist, Adam tugs himself free from his grasp. So much for thinking he was done brooding. David’s arm falls to his side as he watches Adam take a hurried step back — half a step, actually, still well within David’s reach, and well, that’s something.

“Sarif—”

“Jesus, Adam,” David interrupts. He gestures at the drying come on Adam’s stomach. A bit theatrical, sure, but it gets the points across. “You’re a goddamn mess. Come on. You don’t want to stay? Fine. But at least take a shower before you leave.”

David almost expects Adam to refuse; he remembers all too well how hard it can be to get through to him when he’s in one of his contrary moods. But miraculously, his words seem to work. Adam’s shoulders drop a hard-won inch and he finally relaxes his fist.

“Fine,” he says. “But I won’t—”

“Down the hall, first door on the right,” David adds. Adam’s Wayfinder must’ve mapped out his penthouse the moment they entered, even as Adam himself was busy kissing him senseless. Better not to give him a chance to change his mind, though. 

Thankfully, Adam simply nods. David watches him in silence as he collects his clothes scattered around the room — even his boots, and isn’t it a little dramatic? — and leaves the bedroom. He keeps his eyes on Adam until he disappears in the hallway, then sighs. 

Fuck, he could really use a drink now. 

He goes to the bar cabinet and reaches to get a glass… no, two glasses and a bottle of whisky. Adam will like this one, he thinks. A 50-year-old single malt he’s been saving for a special occasion. He pours them both two fingers and takes his glass, smiling. Tonight is as special as it gets. 

With a glass of whisky in his hand, he walks up to the window and leans one forearm against it, taking a sip. Outside, the lights shine golden against the black sky, skyscrapers and billboards sinking deep in the water. It’s darker than Detroit was; the whole world seems to be these days. The city looks burned out, hopeless. Forced to idly wait for the dreams of the future to come alive again. 

Some nights, David can relate.

Tonight, he stares at the city and waits for Adam to come back. 

He always does.


End file.
